It was the 26th of March, and I had just woken up around 9:30 a.m. As usual, I had slept late the previous night—somewhere between 2 and 3 a.m.—so my body still carried the weight of exhaustion.

The house was quiet in its own familiar way, the kind of quiet that isn’t silence but a rhythm of morning sounds. I could hear the faint clatter of utensils from the kitchen—my mother was making lunch. In another corner of the house, my grandmother was reciting her holy book, her voice steady and calm, like a song she had memorized in her soul.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my face, and got out of bed. The bathroom mirror reflected the fatigue clinging to my features—eyes slightly swollen, expression dull, as if my body hadn’t fully registered that the day had begun. I leaned forward and splashed cold water onto my face. The shock of it sent a jolt through my mind, forcing it to wake up, forcing it to accept that sleep was over.

Still feeling sluggish, I walked to the kitchen and asked my mother to make me some tea. She nodded without looking up, focused on whatever she was cooking. The familiar warmth of home wrapped around me—the faint aroma of spices in the air, the low hum of the television playing some morning news in the background.

While she prepared my tea, I picked up the morning newspaper and unfolded it, scanning the headlines. It was the same as always—robbery, fraud, a political scandal, another tragic stampede. The names and locations changed, but the stories never really did. It felt as if the country was caught in an endless loop, playing the same scenes with different actors every day.

Suddenly, the front gate of our home creaked open. My father stepped inside, returning from his daily visit to the temple—something he never missed, no matter the day. He walked in with the same composed expression he always carried, set down his things, and took his usual seat.

“Make me some tea,” he said casually.

He was in his 50s now, his beard peppered with white strands that had gradually taken over in the past few years. Fair-skinned, tall, and broad-shouldered, he still carried the presence of someone who had seen and handled life in all its phases.

For the past few days, I had been asking him about visiting my friend in Rajasthan. Every time, the answer had been the same: “We’ll see.” No further discussion, no clarity—just those two words that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

My mother handed us both our tea.I could feel the warmth of the tea seeping into my hands, the heat gently pressing against my skin through the cup. The rich aroma of milk and tea leaves swirled in the air, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. It wasn’t just a drink; it was a slow awakening, a quiet ritual that signaled the start of the day. The scent alone was enough to pull me out of the remnants of sleep, filling my senses, nudging my mind awake. A medicine for a drowsy brain, I should say.

 I was still absorbed in my newspaper, flipping through the same predictable news, when my father suddenly broke the silence.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked, his voice steady, as if he had already made up his mind.

Caught off guard, I looked up. “Just three days. That’s it,” I replied, keeping it short, not wanting to give him a reason to rethink.

He took a sip of his tea, then after a brief pause, he nodded. “Okay. Make your arrangements.”

Just like that, it was decided. No “we’ll see” this time. No delays. Just a simple “okay.”